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You were the geezer determined to see racism in our bus driver's every move. When you took forever to find a seat—giving every nearby rider a look of disdain —he pulled into traffic. You shouted, "I'm still standing!" When you lost yourself in reverie—perhaps dreaming of the good old days when your kind still ruled the Earth—and saw your stop too late, you reached up to pull the ringer—banging the head of your seatmate in the process—and shouted at the driver that he'd passed your stop. What the fuck? Is he supposed to read your mind? When he pulled over at the very next stop, you paused while leaving to call him a "goddamned Mexican" and then stood there as if tempting him. Lesson one: never insult a man who is sitting down. You should have seen the look on your face when the driver unbuckled his seat belt, removed his sunglasses and turned to walk down the aisle toward you. Your steely gaze turned to one of abject terror. He was one big fucking bus driver—his head alone looked like it came from Mount Rushmore. He bent his immense head down to clear the ceiling of the bus and took only a step or two, and you were gone—out the door. All I saw was your back; I haven't seen an old guy move that fast since the introduction of Viagra. Everyone on the bus applauded the driver.